


the fire's out anyway

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, hopefully it ends happy, references to various things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-02-20
Packaged: 2018-01-13 04:20:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1212457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that you shouldn't meet your heroes, and there's a damn good reason for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fire's out anyway

**Author's Note:**

> _Little boy, hey, the door is that way_  
>  You better go you know the fire's out anyway
> 
>  
> 
> _RENT_

            It is a generally accepted fact that the lower down on the spectrum you are, the more stable you are. Barring some major tragedy—the early loss of a lusus, the later loss of a quadrant—a warmblood would be expected to live out their life on a reasonably even keel. That does not mean a maroon would never go feral, and that no coldblood would ever be sane, but all of those would be outliers in the data, few and far between. Especially in the case of “sane highbloods”.

            Longetivity tends towards insanity. This is especially so in the case of things that should not be alive.

            I happen to be one of those things

 

 

_hunt scratch bite snarl hunt stalk pounce slash caught kill rip tear hunt_

            There are certain things that can bind a ghost. As this was not my main area of study, I only know of the method used on me. And as embarrassing as it is to admit, they used worship. Unintentionally, I am sure. It matters not, what they meant or did not mean, because what happened may never be undone. As far as I know.

 

            But don’t I wish that it wasn’t so! Oh, my love, I miss you. My only hope had been to see you once more, my only motivation to breathe; the retelling of your tale. You would be so much more suited for this than I! This was your work, your life, your death. My work is done, thrice over, and still _THEY WILL NOT LET ME GO_

            I hate-pity them, too young to understand, too burnt to blaze, too lost to seek guidance from any but a ghost. Your death charred and scarred me, my love, and the chill of the cave took my warmth, stole your fire, left me

 

 

_cold cold as night cold as dark cold as a seadweller’s frozen heart_

            I nearly cannot remember your face, though I draw it a thousand times in my dreaming. It has become something of paint and blood and pain, it has lost its meaning, it has crumbled to no more than pictures and words. My heart aches. I am weary. They will not let me go.

            Do you know, I am young again? I thought to amuse you with my wrinkled face, my milky eyes, but I seem as I do at my peak, save for a touch more muscle and weight. Perhaps whatever is left of me was never subjected to Rosa’s tree bark stew? Not that I blame her, she did her best.

            But I am

 

 

_lonely gone lose lost loss it aches it burns scream SCREAM_

            They talk of revolution, my love. They speak of change, borne on shining wings, rekindling the embers of your flame. _Who would carry the torch?_ they ask, one guard to another—my cave has guards, love, and offerings and pilgrims. They were more scared to approach when I was still alive—and someone new replies, _the rebel, the Summoner, the winged Cavalreaper._ He is coming, they say, in whispers and murmurs, again and again until they bounce off the walls of the cave. He is coming, he is coming, _he is coming._

 

            I await this pretender with bated breath, with sharpened claws. He knows nothing of pain and grief, nothing of loss and fear. He knows blood and war and hate, he is Imperial-made. This Summoner is one more wriggler going off to war, one more name to be erased from the abhorristorian’s accounts.

            They say he is coming to seek my guidance. They say he will overthrow the highbloods and change all of Alternia, and they will all rejoice and be free.

            Fools, all of them. Utter fools.

 

 

* * *

 

            It was an honor to be here, truly, it was. While access to the Disciple’s Cave was open to all, private visits were a rarity, and the Summoner intended to make use of his time. To that effect, his whole party had arrived a day early, and he had suggested that they go to visit the cave before him. There had been half-pushered protests, before they hurried off into the sacred space, quietly excited.

            That dawn, they came back to camp with their voices hushed in awe. As his coterie readied their day tents and sopor patches, his assistant softly informed him of the next night’s events.

            “You will have a whole night ahnd day to yourself, Sir.” Epione Haelea handed over the necessary information and letters of introduction. Her fins flicked in amusement at his look of utter distaste. “Bring a sleeping pad, for a mediation mat. Ahnd try to look more heroikh. Just bekhause you dislike Amneto Sciori does not mean you need to wear a face that frightens wrigglers.”

            “Sorry, Haelea. You know how it is.” Sciori was a bastard, but a recommendation from him carried a lot of weight in these circles. And there was no sense in taking his ire out on Haelea, who had a bad enough time with everyone glowering at her suspiciously. Most of them were willing to go as far as mocking to her face. Highbloods were not welcome here, but she was a capable healer, a good assistant, and she had been a member of his squad since the very start. “What was it like?”

            Her expression turned odd. It was hard to describe. Think of it as the fleeting look someone might have after the best dream of his or her life, the point right after they’ve woken up. Just before they realize that it was all a dream. “It’s brilliant. Kholorful. Each painting tells a story, ahnd they have ahll of her written words bound in a book ahs well. There is a sense of pain ahnd sadness there.” She gave him a wistful smile, which vanished in moments, then tapped the paper in his hand. “Keep trakhk of these, Khaptin.”

            Haelea moved off through the brightening gloom. The Summoner stared after her for a moment, then ducked into his own day tent. A whole night and day in the Disciple’s Cave. He was indeed a lucky troll.

 

            Summoner was up at sunset, feeling nearly as fidgety and nervous as a green cavalcadet. The last time he was so on edge was sweeps ago, and it was nearly embarrassing to realize that he was the slightest bit frightened. One of the cave guards came to fetch him as the last of the light faded, her daycloak billowing in the wind. “Any advice?” he asked, as he pulled on his own daycloak and shouldered a pack. It would be searched, true, but it was not as if he had put anything dangerous in it.

            The guard gave him a blank look. “Don’t fall asleep.”

As if he would. What kind of advice was that?

 

 

_wind laced salt taint fresh blood he is coming he is here_

            Her cave was a marvel. Paintings, in all kinds of colors. Somehow, somewhere, she had found the brilliant crimson of His blood, and the paintings reflected that. There was a freshwater spring, a small one that filled up a little pool with a sandy bottom. The pool ran to a river that flowed to some crack in the wall. As for the cave itself, it was carved deep, not too wide at the entrance, and opening up as you went further in. Everything was covered in paint, save for the back wall. On the back wall, there was a half-finished painting, ruined by a streak. Her last work.

            Just under that painting was a carved wooden shrine that housed the Disciple’s remains. The Summoner set his pack down before it, and continued his slow examination of each carefully wrought depiction. All of them had been copied down or recorded, and the literature of His sermons and Her stories, combined with the pictures, had spread far and wide amongst the trolls who still believed. Seeing it for himself made it that much more real. More solid. He could actually believe that the Sufferer’s Clade had lived.

            The floor was polished smooth by thousands and thousands of bare feet, stone that had once been covered by furs. A low fire burned, and a glance upwards had him noting grooves carved into the rough ceiling, to allow what little smoke it gave off a chance to escape.

 

            It was nearly sunrise when he turned his attention to meditating, settling himself into a comfortable position in front of the little shrine.

            Time passed. The sun rose. He opened his eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

           The sleeping pad felt odd beneath him, too rough and too soft all at once. Not to mention the fact that he did not remember lying down. And the light felt all wrong, too low and too dark. Summoner blinked again, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness.  Everything felt wrong.

           There were furs beneath his feet, pale light from behind some kind of curtain. The paintings looked sharper, fresher, and the cave itself was wreathed in shadows. His head whipped around—The Last Painting had been completed, the little shrine was gone, and brilliant green eyes were watching him from the gloom.

           Turning his attention in the observer’s direction proved to be a mistake. Before he even had the chance to drop into a defensive stance, they leaped at him, and he found himself sprawled back onto the ground, suddenly grateful for the change in flooring.

           “I would ask of you a reason not to slit your throat, but I would not trust a word you said.” Archaic Alternian? No, she (and it was definitely a she, he could tell that much through his swimming vision) sounded as if she was uncomfortable with the words. Fairly warm, then, and unused to the more formal speech patterns.

           This new discovery was still less pressing than the questions of who was she and how had she gotten here. They had said he would be left alone in Her Cave. And this was a warmblood! How was it that she hadn’t heard of him? “Killing me would stop the revolution in its tracks, you know,” he managed to gasp out.

           Her eyes lit up, and she chuckled, obviously amused. Rough hair brushed against his face as she leaned down. “I know.”

 

           The purr in her voice, the green of her eyes—his vision snapped back into focus with near-painful clarity. He knew exactly who this was. Summoner’s breath caught, and he searched her face hungrily. “Disciple.” It was barely more than a breath, not even loud enough to be a whisper, but she let out a disgusted huff and pushed away from him.

           He immediately scrambled to his feet with his eyes alight. “My lady, I have dreamed of meeting you for sweeps and sweeps on end!” Her ire did not fade at his recognition. Instead, her eyes narrowed, and she settled down on her haunches in a pose that he clearly recognized as threatening and easy to attack from. “Lady Disciple?”

           “What makes you so special? The pretty wings? The horns?” Her hands flexed, drawing his attention to wickedly sharp claws. “The fact that you are as bloodthirsty as most highbloods are?” She held up a hand to forestall his anger, as he attempted to come up with a reply. “You are a wriggler yet, you and all who might follow you. Their blood will be on your hands, Cavalreaper. Are you quite ready to face such a fate?”

           “Of course I am!” How dare she look down on the rebellion? On all of the sacrifices they had made to get this far? There was no way this fraud was actually the Disciple. The Disciple would have agreed with him! Or she might be the real Disciple, who had decided to test his commitment. “We’re _all_ ready to do anything necessary for the revolution to succeed.”

           “Rebellion, I would say. A pointless endeavor, a futile expenditure of lives and effort.” It wasn’t the worst he had heard, not by a long shot. But coming from one of his idols made it that much more painful. Hearing the mockery in her tone and seeing the spite in her eyes hurt more than he could have possibly imagined.

           “And what exactly did you do? Hide in a cave until you died? Painted a few pictures?” Alternians were no strangers to the undead, but they usually came in the form of zombies and revenants. Ghosts were not unusual either, but solid ghosts were completely unheard of. “Maybe I’m a fool, but you’re a coward!”

 

           The Summoner had no warning. It was if the place shifted around them, and his back was slamming against the ground again. “Traitor!” That wasn’t quite what he had expected. “Imperial scum, coming back cloaked in their colors! You stole his words, you stole his heart, you took his NAME." Her eyes seemed colored oddly, shiny, damp, and her weight was nearly forcing the air out of his lungs.

           It was starting to dawn on the Summoner that the oliveblood wasn't all there. Her grasp on sanity seemed fragile at best, and calming her down seemed nearly impossible. "What do you mean by that?"

           "Signless-Sufferer, Cavalreaper, troll-trained, troll-traitor, you turned on them, you'll turn on us too!" The hiss and snarl, the rage, they were fearsome to behold. Disciple and Huntress, but time had all too easily forgotten the second. "You belong to the Empire. You twist his words to your aim! I will _never_ give you my blessing."

 

           Summoner snarled, shoving upwards and rolling her off to the side. Before she had the chance to react, he pinned her. “I’m fighting for them, for the warmbloods! It’s the same thing He did!” She might have been fierce and sharp, but he was stronger by far, and as long as he kept her wrists pinned and stayed away from her fangs, he was safe.

           “ _He_ sought equality, saw a world where everyone could live in peace!” Twisting underneath him, she tried to break free, claw at his arms, kick him away. “You take his words that you prefer, and ignore all the others that go with them, cut out anything that would not further your cause, pretty little petty little goal, so hungry for attention that you would challenge the sea!”

           “You’re wrong,” he spits out, and the fury drops his guard enough for her to slip free. The Disciple went for his hamstrings, and the “discussion” devolved into a brawl as they both fought for control. They were nearly evenly matched, in lethal ability and determination to kill.

           He wasn’t sure who made the first move. Who pushed their strife from snapping at the jugular to fierce clashes of lips and fangs. But claws were sinking into cloth, not skin, and as she rolled him to his back, he went almost willingly.

 

           “I hate you,” she hissed, as if discovering the words for the first time. “Spoiled, selfish, _brat_.”

           “Scaredy purrbeast.” The way his nails dug into her skin was perfect, scoring olive green lines across clean grey. Her vicious snarl had him laughing even as she drew her own markings upon his skin. “You hid, you ran, you scaredy purrbeast.” It was a wrigglerish insult, but it seemed to get under her skin, and he paired it with a smirk.

           “And you are going off to die.” Gripping her hips, he surged upwards, pressing deep into her as she arced her back and continued her litany of his faults. “Too caught up in your own importance to care. Too wrapped up in your cause to see the suffering.”

           “And you’re a ghost, you’re not even alive,” he retorted, stifling a moan as she rocked down against him. “A ghost that won’t go away.”

           She shifted, he groaned, and it had her grinning in victory. The Disciple leaned down, close enough that her lips brushed his ear. “I can’t.”

 

           His scathing riposte was lost in the sweep of endorphins that accompanied fangs sunk deep into his shoulder and claws slashing against his chest. Summoner replied in more of a roar, shoving her to the ground once more.

 

 

           The light brightened, and his eyes flew open. Disciple was tucked into the crook of his arm, one horn jabbed into his neck. Varicolored furs were tucked snugly around them. The Summoner shifted carefully and quietly, in an attempt to pull away without rousing her. It seemed as if his clothes were mostly intact, and he tugged them on quickly.

           “You have no chance to win, you know.” Disciple’s voice was soft, and her eyes were still shut tight.

           “And you’re dead. Why are you hanging around here anyway? You don’t seem to care much for any of us.” There were sharp rents in his shirt, and he stuck a finger through one, wiggling it around with a sigh. Her eyes opened slowly, and she sat up, stretched out, as if she had no care for her bare skin. “What do you want?”

           A purr. That was the best description he could give of her laughter, some kind of soft chirr that had the slightest twinge of sadness to it. “I can’t leave.” He knelt down next to her for a moment, as if he was praying, not entirely sure why he would go to such lengths. “And as to what I want. I suppose that it is simple.” Her fingertips brushed against his cheek, tracing gentle loops and curls. “I want to see him again. And I want to be free.”

           “You will be. I promise.”

           Disciple raised an eyebrow at him (how could she doubt him after all of that?) and nodded. Her hand cupped the side of his face for a moment, no more than that. Then she turned away, back to her wall. Summoner stepped back to watch as she began a new painting. It was hard to pull away, and he watched her for as long as he dared. Then he turned away, padding through the cave and towards the daylight.

 

The light dimmed as he walked. His eyes flew open. Empty cave. Cold stone. Faded paintings. He pushed off of the sleeping pad, stalking towards the star-lit night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

           There was a crowd gathered around the exit to the cave. Their eyes widened as he stepped into the moonlight, and someone let out a soft gasp. Epione reached towards his face with a shaky hand, and her fingertips came away olive green.

           “Still wet,” she murmured. The whispers picked up and spread through the crowd, growing and swelling. _Her sign, it’s her sign!_

           “S’r, you m’ght need some med’cal attent’on.” The Summoner glanced down at his torn chest before shaking his head.

           “Clean them later. I want them to scar.”

           The whisperings turned into a roar of sound that picked them up, carrying them away from the Disciple’s Cave.

 

 

* * *

 

 

           Noises of revelry were audible from even her barren prison. The festivities sprawled across a quarter perigee, like a lazy purrbeast, and she was verging on regret by the time the cacophony finally died down. Why had she marked that stupid wriggler? He would be dead in a sweep, dead by the sea.

 

           Voices were soft and silent by the door, and she perked up slightly. That sounded like the tealblood who was one of her usual guards, a former threshecutioner. And…

           “I want it closed off if I don’t come back,” he said. Brown and shining, bronze and fire. The tealblood started to disagree, insist that he would be back, and he cut her off. “When I do come back, I’ll tell her myself and I’ll close it myself. She. She deserves to be free.”

           “Yes sir.”

 

* * *

 

 

Time passed. Night turned to day. The world kept turning.

 

 

 

_Stones covered everything, love, and I started to fade._

**Author's Note:**

> This was written (and rewritten) as a birthday gift for tumblr user Moonie [ablubluh.tumblr.com]
> 
> Songs:  
> Another Day, from RENT, the musical ((http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ifknfWDYyp4))  
> Turning, from Les Misérables, the musical ((http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FM9dicyQ00s))

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [огонь всё равно потух (the fire's out anyway by thescyfychannel (scyth3g1rl))](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574662) by [Mr_Scapegrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mr_Scapegrace/pseuds/Mr_Scapegrace)




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